The Assassin
by hannahclubreef12
Summary: Next on Max's ASSASSIN list is Nicholas Collins. Hmm... Sound familiar to ya? When Max is sent to kill Nicholas- better known as Fang- Her nightmare of a life turns upside down. She must kill him. She has to. Can she? Will she? See for yourself. FAX! AH
1. Prolouge

The Assassin

Prologue: The List

**Hey, guys! So this is the PROLOGUE of _The__Assassin._I'm super exited for this FanFic! Me and my friend, Hannah (Aka hannahclubreef12) are writing it together. Credits to her for the plot! She thought of it, and we came up with the ideas together :)**

**I think it's gonna be awesome. So here's the prologue!**

**Wait, wait. Do I need to do the disclaimer thingy? OK, whatever - I don't own MR!**

**Now you may read :)**

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><p>Max POV<p>

Brigid Doyle – Mental scientist; Known for illegal experimentation on stolen children; Chad, Hawaii.

_TERMINATED._

Sam Warner – Professional journalist for the New York Times News paper; Known for foundation of criminal, Dylan Hagen; Chicago, Illinois.

_TERMINATED._

Anne Walker – High School history teacher; Known for strictness, favoritism, and assumed racism in classes; Kansas, Virginia.

_TERMINATED._

Jeb Batchelder – Eco maniac scientist; Known for working with Itex, company wanting to destroy the world; Ontario, Canada.

_TERMINATED._

_Next in line. . ._

Nicholas Collins – High school student; Sophomore; Miami, Florida.

_Collins, Collins. . . ? Where do I know that name from?_

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><p><strong>Yes, we know. It's really, really short. But don't worry, this is just the prologue. Chapter one will be much longer. And if your a little confused, don't sweat it. We got ya covered.<strong>

**Next chapter will probably answer your Qs. So, REVIEW! I love the fact that you guys are reading and all, but reviewing lets me know what you think, if you like it & stuff. So, please review, people!**

**Thanks. Smiles from,**

**A.O.L. & Hannah.**


	2. Chapter 1

**Hey guys. So here it is!**

**R&R!**

Chapter One

**Max POV**

"Where the _hell_ is my money, Dylan." I demanded, furiously, releasing my killer glare that made dudes piss their pants.

"Max, Max, Max." Dylan answered, slowly shaking his head left and right. "The mission is our first priority, you know that. _Then_ you can have the damn cash."

"You fucking listen to me, ass hole." I ordered, sternly, "I don't remember you telling me any of this crap. So, hand. Over. The. Money."

"Now, now, Maxie Girl." He began in a voice a parent would use when correcting a child. God that freaking dog can't take a hint, now, can he? "This is the most simplest mission of all your assignments. No sicko scientists to get in your way, no teachers and policemen and what not. It's too easy. In fact, I'm thinking you should be more grateful for this task, Maxie. The guy's a freaking high school_ sophomore. _I expect more from you."

"I don't give a crap! You _swore_ – "

"And now I swear you'll get the money after you fucking kill him!" Dylan answered, finally loosing his cool.

"Screw you." I muttered. "Get me the damn ticket to Miami."

"Already done. Your leaving in. . ." He shook his sleeve up and out of the way, to find his totally unaffordable and unearned solid gold watch. "Like, four hours." He finished.

I grunted and answered with nothing more than a good old, "Go to hell."

"I'll request a room next to yours when I get there," He answered sarcastically. Ass.

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><p>Three hours later and I was on my way. To the air port, that is. Dylan arranged for a meet-up with one of his dearest criminal friends when I would arrive in Miami, so I didn't have to slug all my weapons along the way. Besides, I ain't going to jail.<p>

It was almost two thirty in the afternoon. Take off was told to be at three. Finally, I made it to the plane.

"That will be seat C3, Miss." The flight attendant assured me as she handed me back my ticket.

"Thanks," I answered timidly and made my way to the seat.

"Attention flight passengers, attention" Said a manly voice from some speakers around the plane. "Please settle down in your seats and buckle up. We will be taking air in approximately five minutes, or so. The doors will be closing, now. Thank you for choosing Sky-Life as your number one." Odd greeting, huh? Yeah. Sky-Life totally sucks ass. I mean, my back is already cramping! God, it's been, what? Like Three minutes? Damn.

The plane doors soon slid closed with a click. In five minutes, we were already taking off. My ears popped several times. Ugh, don't you just hate that? It felt like my right ear was clogged with tissue paper, while my left ear was _too_ high on volume. I took some gum out of my pouch. I'd heard it unclogs the ears. Might as well try it.

Well, the gum wasn't exactly working it's so called "magic". But hey, this ain't a joy ride. Bored as hell, I reached for my Ipod and earphones, before taking a glance at the built in little TV screen, in the middle of the plane isle.

Guess what was on? Criminal Minds. Oh, _awesome_. Ever heard of that show? Anyway, the title says it all. Don't they realize we're, like, we're on a _plane_ here? And it's just perfect, playing this particular show while they got their own Little Assassin here on the loose, sent to kill some dude, Nickolas Collins.

I pulled up my hoodie up and kept my head down.

You see, I'm famous. Not the way you'd wish, though. Not the "OMG! YOUR MAXIMUM RIDE! I LOVE YOU!" sorta way. More like the, "OMG! YOU'RE THE ASSASSIN GIRL FROM THE NEWS! I HATE YOU!" In a scared-to-death-tone kinda way. So yeah. I've been on the News frequently enough. Never caught strait up and face-to-face, but still, caught in blurry photographs and foggy videos. The world basically hates my guts. And I don't give a shit. So sitting here, in this _so_ very comfortable seat – note the sarcasm – and trying to hide my identity of a well known assassin, I'm doing good. You could say.

To block out the freaking, stupid TV, I plugged my earphones in and chose a random song.

The tune crept into my head as I recognized the beat.

Oh wow. My life is so fucking weird. Assassin by John Meyer. Perfect, eh?

But even though it's totally ironic and fitting, at the same time it's the total opposite of my life and situation. 'Cause just like every other damn song in the whole damn world, it was a _love_ song.

And who the hell falls in love with an assassin?

Anyway. . .

_I work in the dead of night  
>When the roads are quiet, no one is around<br>To track my moves, racing the yellow lights  
>To find the gate is open, she's waiting in the room<br>I just step on through_

See, ironic. . . so far.

_You get in, you get done and then you get gone_  
><em>You never leave a trace, or show your face, you get gone<em>  
><em>Should've turned around and left before the sun came up again<em>  
><em>But the sun came up again<em>

I've been caught. Not personally, though. Like I said, blurry photographs and foggy videos.

_Enter the morning light_  
><em>To find the day is burning the curtains and the wine<em>  
><em>In a little white room<em>  
><em>Though I'm not alone, her head is heavy on me<em>  
><em>She's sleeping like a child<em>  
><em>What could I do<em>

My thoughts on this: _WTH?_

_You get in, you get done and then you get gone_  
><em>You never leave a trace, or show your face, you get gone<em>  
><em>Should've turned around and left before the sun came up again<em>  
><em>But the sun came up again<em>

_I was a killer, was the best they'd ever seen_

TOTALLY.

_I'd steal your heart before you ever heard a thing  
>I'm an assassin and I had a job to do<br>Little did I know that girl was an assassin too_

Uh, getting' the romance aspect in over here. That just sorta ruined it.

_Suddenly I'm in over my head and I can hardly breathe_  
><em>Suddenly I'm floating over her bed and I feel everything<em>  
><em>Suddenly I know exactly what I did, but I can not move a thing<em>  
><em>And suddenly I know exactly what I've done<em>  
><em>And what it's gonna mean to me, mean to me<em>

_I'm gone_

_I was a killer, was the best they'd ever seen_  
><em>I'd steal your heart before you ever heard a thing<em>  
><em>I'm an assassin and I had a job to do<em>  
><em>Little did I know that girl was an assassin too<em>

_She's an assassin_  
><em>She's an assassin<em>  
><em>She's an assassin<em>  
><em>She's an assassin and she had a job to do<em>

Uh, _okay_. Enough of that crap. I pulled off my earphones and threw the stinking Ipod back into my bag.

Then, I felt a tap on my shoulder. _Crap, crap crap._

"Hello, Miss, can I help you with anything?" Asked some pretty flight attendant, sweetly. I let out a heavy sigh of relief.

"N-no. I'm good." I answered looking down.

"Um, sorry to bother you," she started before walking away, "But you seem so familiar. . . Have I seen you before?"

"Beats me." I answered holding my breath.

"Oh. Well. Excuse me, call if anything is needed." She added, and she left smiling and confused.

Well, shit. I _really_ gotta work on my cover.

"Attention, attention, passengers. We will be landing shortly. Please make sure your fastened in and tight. Thank you, and I hope you enjoyed flying with us!" Said that speaker man, once again.

_Enjoyed my ass._

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><p>Well, to sum up on the whole landing scene, there was another round of ear popping, some nausea, and finally, we were on the precious ground, known as earth. Earth rocks, by the way, 'cause that was just plain heck.<p>

We all fled the hell hole and I made my way to retrieve my bag. After I got them, I went outside to find that my criminal ride was set and waiting.

"Maximum Ride?" Asked the driver in a rough tone. He had various tattoos spread here and their on his skin, and a few piercings; the type of "normal" looking bad-guys you'd encounter nowadays.

"That would be _moi," _I answered, pulling myself into the passenger seat and swinging the door to a slam-shut.

"Dyl said you'd be hot." He muttered in a confirming tone, sneaking a side glance at me.

"Fuck you." I said, and flipped him the bird.

"Whoa. Potty mouth!" The dude exclaimed.

"Yo, haughty boy, wanna shut the hell up? Or would you prefer some kick ass?" I asked, annoyed with the son-of-a-gun jab.

"Hey, babe. Calm down, I'm just here for the job." He said, as we pulled into a deserted area, behind some apartment buildings. There stood an old and tattered house among the trashy crap area.

"Name?" I asked Mr. Tattoo.

"Ari." He answered. Huh, so demented names are in style, now?

"And watchya got for me, here, Ari?" I asked, deviously.

"Got the guns, daggers, pocket knives, and some occasional bombs of my liking." He stated. "Take your pick. Or take it all." He added.

"Grab me a bag. I'm taking the whole stash." I answered and he did as I told him.

After we finished loading the car, Ari dropped me off at some Hotel in Miami. It was pretty sweet, I gotta say.

"Thanks," I muttered, to Ari, and he was gone, leaving me with a crumpled piece of paper given to him by Dylan.

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><p>After I checked in, I made my way to my room on the third floor. I looked around the beige painted walls, free-falling golden curtains and beautifully printed, down comforters. There was a forty-five inched Plasma flat screen facing the king-sized bed. And even the carpet felt extra soft and fluffy. All in what the call a "Studio Room". Nice.<p>

I slumped down on the soft and amazingly comfortable bed – compared to those God awful flight seats – and rummaged in my pocket for that crumpled paper Ari had given me.

It read, in Dylan's perfect script (you'd think it'd be chicken scratch, considering _his_ record):

_Nicholas Collins:_

_Cell #: 664-8932_

_Address: NE 53rd St._

Then, is all those dramatic caps letters, that scare us terribly so, it said:

_KILL HIM._

Oh, well, imagine that?

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><p><strong>AH! Okay, so their you have it. NOW REVIEW FOR A SOONER UPDATE!<strong>

**Love ya'll,**

**A.O.L. & Hannah**


	3. Chapter 2

**Amanda (ME!): Hey, everyone, R&R! . . . Or else. And thanks so much for reviewing, guys :) You don't understand how happy it makes me!**

**Hannah: So you better review!**

**Haha, Hannah's not even here right now, but I can hear her saying, "REVIEW MY FREAKING STORY!" lol. Luv ya Hannah.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Max Ride.**

**Me and Hannah: ENJOY!**

Chapter Two

**Max POV**

I sat up, and took another good look around the beautiful hotel room, just thinking the almighty words_"KILL__HIM"_play over and over in my head like a broken record.

Well, Thank you Dr. Obvious. What else am I gonna do to the guy? Rape him? God forbid, I mean, _damn_, who the hell does Dylan think I am? MAXIMUM RIDE. That's who the hell I am. And I've been sent on some terrifying missions, compared to this itty-bitty one. Well, terrifying to _you._ 'Cause I'm the assassin here, not giving a crap if I killed some crazy Eco-maniac-scientist, or shot some mentally demented dude with the urge to wipe out all man kind.

Or some innocent sophomore, making his way through that pathetic hell hole we weirdly call _High__School_. Nicholas Collins. And now I'm seeing a difference. . .

My list.

_. . . Nicholas Collins – High school student; Sophomore; Miami, Florida._

While all my other murder-missions were more like:

_. . . Jeb Batchelder – Eco maniac scientist; Known for working with Itex, company wanting to destroy the world; Ontario, Canada._

Are ya seeing the difference, here? I'm not crazy. Okay, okay. You'd probably call an assassin crazy, so maybe I am. But I'm not fucking _blind._

Nicholas: H.S. STUDENT.

Jeb: WANTED TO FREAKING _DESTROY__THE__WORLD._

Well, as I was explaining before, I can _see_. And this is definitely confusing me in many different ways.

You don't get it, now, do you? Dylan – yes, he's a darn evil guy, being the eighteen-year-old freak he is – always sent me to kill all these random whack-jobs, giving me very little as to their background information, but still some solid stalkings he'd done, gave me at least _some_ clue as to who they were and why he wanted them dead.

But not with this Nick guy. _Why_ _not_? And why would he want some stranger – I'm guessing – killed? Just for the hell of it? The fun? To give me a reason to _finally_feel remorse, or guilt?

I'm guessing you don't have an answer for me. . .

You see, Killing people – shooting them, stabbing them, or just plain bar-handed murder – Isn't exactly as hard as you'd think it would be for _me_ to do.

Not in the physical way, either, but I'm more on the topic of emotion.

Basically, I go by mottoes like, "What's done is done" or "Never regret your past" and stuff like that. Hey, our economy is, like, going _nowhere_ right now; people need jobs and "desperate times call for desperate measures". And I need the money. Dylan pays me at least one-hundred-thousand bucks a kill.

That's four-hundred-thousand dollars, all together, guys. _Four-hundred-thousand._

And, since I'm only seventeen, I plan on starting a _real_life, after Dylan's big "mystery mission" is solved and done. And if your sitting there, reading this, and thinking, "What the hell is this girl _thinking?_" I can dream, people. I can at least _try_ and make it happen, while managing to keep my identity totally unknown and hidden, buried as deep as can be, leaving me with only my future to attend to.

Yeah. I'd _love_that.

I got out of the steamy shower, and rapped a fluffy white hotel towel around my dripping body. And, yes, evil assassins _do_take showers, my fellow readers. Occasionally.

I sighed as I made my way to my little black luggage bag. I unzipped the thing easily, and looked through my _oh__so__fashionable_ wardrobe. Huh, _not_.

_Something__inconspicuous.__.__.__Something__inconspicuous,__something__inconspicuous.__.__.__hmmm.__.__._Got it.

Well, you can never go wrong with some dark, jean shorts and a tight white V-neck. Hey, don't judge me. I haven't been shopping in almost a _year_, since I started working for my bud, Dyl, over here. The nicest guy on the planet. Must I note the sarcasm?

I through on my combat boots and laced 'em up, tight. Looking in the mirror I attempted to brush my horribly knotted hair, but managed a decent ponytail, when I didn't necessarily _succeed_.

I let out a heavy breath and grabbed the "KILL HIM" note off the bed for my point of interest. Time to _KILL__HIM._

Whoever _he_ may be.

Fang POV

"I found it, Mom!" I yelled to her from up the stairs. Angel, my little sister, had lost her small stuffed bear, Celeste; and had been going crazy looking for it for days, now. Well, in short, without Celeste, a day with Ange is hell.

"Oh, great! Give it to her before she throws another hissy-fit!" Mom answered, hurriedly. I sighed and ran upstairs to find Angel; arms crossed, pouty faced, her big blue eyes glaring at the TV set.

"Guess who I've got?" I said, attempting to to be cheerful. She looked up at me, her eyes flickered with hope.

"Celeste? Celeste?" She squealed, jumping up and down. I held the bear out for her to see. "You found her! Oh, Fangy! Your the bestest!" Her smile was huge as she ran to hug me. I hugged her back.

"No problem, Ange." I smiled as she let go. Well, as much as _I_ can smile. "I'm gonna go try and finish my home work, now, okay, sweaty?" Yeah, I'm a rockin' brother. Well, that's only 'cause this was _Angel._I'd never act like this with anyone else. Angel was mostly "sugar, spice, and everything nice." She usually wore a huge smile, and a little pink tutu, everywhere she went. She's very persuasive, by the way, and well, angelic. But the second you set eyes on her, you fall under her. . . well, I guess you could call it a "cuteness" spell.

"Okay! But I'm hosting a tea party, for Celeste's return!" She yelled, happily, getting out her fake tea set and other stuffed animals, "Hello, Mr. Wiggles. . ." She started, and I was already decending to my room.

Homework sucks ass. Ever since that crazy teacher – Miss Walker, I think? – died, she was replaced by a Mr. Martin. Most dull, and full of crap, person I've met in my _life_. And my homework could pile to the roof.

Well, life's hard. Life could be great, good, bad, and unfortunate – but that's life. And no one gives a fucking crap about anyone else's, but their own.

See, I'm a. . . say, orphan. But I was adopted when I was thirteen, by two very amazing people. My parent's were killed in an accident of some kind. Yeah, sad, I know. But like I said before, _that's__life._

And just like home work, life sucks ass, too.

_Click,__click!_I heard a noise, coming from somewhere around my room. It sounded again. And it came from my closet.

_What the hell?_

Then the weirdest fucking thing in all heck happened. A _girl_ barged out of my _closet_.

Let me reword that. A FREAKING GIRL BARDGED OUT OF MY DAMN CLOSET.

I stared at the girl in shock, also taking a second to check her out, I gotta say. She was in some sexy jean shorts and a super-tight-looking white V-neck. And Combat boots. She was by _far_ the prettiest, yet hottest girl I've ever seen. _Way__to__make__a__first__impression,__stranger_, I thought, finally meeting a gorgeous pair of chocolate-brown eyes, surrounded by a beautiful make-up free face, and outlined by long, sun-streaked golden hair. She looked strangely familiar.

"Ah, hi?" I manged to greet.

"Hey." She answered calmly, looking me over. She looked down at a piece of crumpled paper in her hands.

"Nicholas Collins?" She asked, looking up again. I froze. I hadn't heard that name in years. It was my original name, my _real_name. But nobody had called me that since I was adopted. I'd went by "Fang" from then on.

I nodded slowly, feeling very confused, and probably not displaying any crap on my known to be "impassive" face.

"And you are?" I finally got out.

"Max." She said. Max. Huh. Even though it's sorta a guy's name, it seemed to fit her just right. Her edgy-bad-ass look. It was pretty hot. And _so_ freaking familiar.

"So, Max. You just walked out of my closet. . ." I began, not exactly knowing what to say. I mean, seriously? What the hell _do_ you say to a freaking stranger-but-familiar-girl that just happened to appeared out of, like, nowhere. . .?

"A, _yeah_, about that. . ." She said, stepping closer to me. She reached into a pouch that was wrapped around her slim, but curvy waist. I noticed a long, deep scar starting from between her thumb and index finger, all the way down, a tad below her wrist.

I knew that scar.

"Maximum Ride?" I asked. She froze. Her hand still in the pouch.

She looked really confused. "H-how do you. . . ?" Her eyes turned to understanding, then full-on shock. "Holly. Fucking. Shit."

My thoughts exactly.

**How'd you like it? NOW R-E-V-I-E-W!**

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**A.O.L. & Hannah.**


	4. Chapter 3

**A/N: Amanda here! I'm updating for Hannah, since she wasn't available. **

**We adore you all. The reviews rocked my socks :)**

**R&R & ENJOY!**

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><p>"<em>I'll see you tomorrow!" The girl yelled after Max. Max waved back, nodding and smiling coolly as she walked off down that too-familiar path home.<em>

_Unfortunately, Max had to walk to school, _and_ walk home, every. Single. Freaking. Day. Well, unless it was a "special" day. Like her birthday, when she would be driven to the hell-hole personally, in a crap-car; as a preciously generous gift. That is, only if her parents actually remembered – which was rare._

_Well, back then, Max actually thought of that drive to school as a gift; considering the three mile walk she woke up to every other morning._

_So, sadly, since Max wasn't getting any older today, it was a day like any other: walk to school, walk home. Fun, eh? 'Cause everyone enjoys moist air and disease-infested bugs up your pants._

_Max crunched away through the brown crackling, dry grass. She was halfway there, and didn't know if she'd rather stay where she was, all repelling, grotesque and sweaty; or go "home". Air quotes intended._

_Max wouldn't really call that place a _home_. Homes were supposed to be cozy, and loving, and warm. Homes were the place a kid couldn't wait to get to, after that dreadfully long day of school. Homes were where that best-mom-in-the-world-that-sometimes-gets-on-your-nerves-but-you-love-her-anyway awaited; dinner and all that yummy stuff cooked and waiting in hand._

_But not Max._

_All she had to look forward to when she got home was some burnt toast (which, by the way, was all she knew how to cook) and a fresh, steamy pot of neglect. Oh, the joy._

_So, as Max stood there, in the boiling heat of a late-summer afternoon, debating whether or not to keep walking, she wasn't expecting _him _to appear. She never expected _him_._

"_Oh, if it isn't my little Maxie Girl," _he_ cooed. Max froze, before she turned around to face the one and only pissing monster of hell._

"_And if it isn't my little dick head." She muttered, glaring back at him with full force._

_The perfect example of loving best friends._

"_How old are you, considering the form of language you speak so fluently?" _He_ asked, grinning evilly, and slightly amused. _He _was already eighteen._

"_Fourteen. But I'm a fast learner." she said, drowning her words in pure sarcastic wit. Her parents taught her well. "Now, enough with this crap, about _me_. Why are _you_ here?" She demanded, getting strait to the point._

_The answer to her previous question had been confirmed. She wanted out. She wanted "home" and away from _him. _But it seemed her way would be harder to get; today especially._

"_I've got an offer for you." _He_ replied, stepping closer as Max took a step back. _His_ hands in the pockets __of _his_ gray hoodie. Max wondered why _he'd_ be wearing such a heavy sweater when it was over ninety degrees out there, not one cloud in the sky to block out the fiery sun that felt like it could surely burn them both alive._

"_You have no life, now, don't you?" _He_ asked, shamelessly. Max gritted her teeth, about to cut _him_ off when _he_ added, "You want one, now, don't you?" using the same tone and words of accusation and question._

_What was _he_ going to do? Rape her? Hurt her? Kill her?_

_To that, she had no answer, entirely._

"_I can give you one." _He_ finished in a quiet tone. She didn't speak; just stood there, with her eyebrows slightly raised, not knowing what to do – let alone say._

_But Max being Max, went with something witty, of course, to disguise her eternal fears, "No thanks, I just purchased one at Walmart, actually. No need for the generosity." She said, fake-smiling, sweetly. "But if your interested, I hear there's a clearance on brains there, too. Just your luck." She added._

He_ clicked his tongue, steadily shaking his head left, and right. "You don't get it."_

"_No, apparently I don't." She replied, icily. Max could see the school's parking lot from where she stood, and noticed a male figure watching their little banter at a distance._

"_Come with me, then." _He_ said._

"_No." She answered stubbornly. Max never took orders, unless there was something in it for her._

"_Come with me." _He_ told her._

"_No way." She answered, acidly._

"_You will. Oh, trust me, you will." _He_ said, looking like _he_ already won._

_Max wasn't paying much attention to her surroundings – as she'd been starring at the dead grass – until she finally felt something cold and sharp graze her neck. She froze, as _he_ continued to slightly move the dagger downward; miraculously, it hadn't cut the skin yet._

_But it sure as hell would soon._

_Then the knife was gone in a flash._

_It had disappeared from her neck, and was now making it's way deep into the back of Max's right wrist, all the way below to the middle of her index finger and thumb. The blood gushed – but Max was thankful for the new center point of the pain._

He _was on the floor; a boy, about her age, had shockingly knocked _him_ down to the rubble. She noticed that it was the boy that had been watching them before._

_Surprisingly, Max laughed, as blood dripped from her gashed hand. The boy looked up at her questioningly, still holding _him _down effortlessly._

_Who knew a fourteen-year-old on steroids could save a life?_

"_I'm Maximum Ride." She said, nearly holding out her right had for a polite shake, but then thinking better of it._

"_Fang Collins." Said the boy, still using his super strength as _He _struggled under his grasp. "Who's the douche?" He asked, nodding at his captive, who was clearly straining for oxygen._

"_Dylan." Max spat, uncaring. "Well, thanks Collins. See you around." She finished, picking up her bag, that had fallen to the dirt as she walked away._

_And they never did._

Until now.

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><p><strong>Max POV<strong>

"Yeah. . ." Fang answered to my exploding of 'holly fucking shit'. For some reason, I noticed a pang of anger surface in his eyes. I wonder why? It's not like I did anything bad to him. . . yet.

Except for, you know, breaking into his house and hiding in his closet.

I could almost hear Dylan's voice whispering _"KILL HIM" _in my head.

"Um, sorry; this. . . never happened. Okay- got it? Good. I'm not here. Your dreaming. Okay, um – bye. . . !"

Don't ask why I just did that. I seriously have absolutely no clue.

I'm going to be _murdered_. Dylan will skin me. He'll freaking cut my head open and suck my brain juice. Then he'll hang me on a display.

Well, not if I get him first.

I quickly slid through Collin's window and jumped off the roof, clinging on tightly to the rope that I'd recently set there.

And, as I slowly distanced myself closer to the ground, I oddly heard the familiar, yet patronizingly catchy tune to a song called "Baby" by a certain teen-pop sensation named Justin Bieber.

Well, let me just say, I would've never seen _that _coming.

* * *

><p><strong>Fang POV<strong>

"What the hell?" Bieber? _Really_? "Iggy." That son of a bitch. I really need to change the lock to my phone. . .

The song died out, and I lied back down on my comfy bed, my brain about to explode. And then the retarded song started up again.

"_Like, baby, Baby, baby, ooooh. . ." _Oh, fuck you Iggy.

Finally, I stood up, grabbed my phone from somewhere on my desk, and answered the damn call.

"Hello?" I said in a blasé tone.

"Why, hello there Fang. Remember me?" Asked the man on the other line, sounding sneaky and repulsive.

"Joey?" I asked, fake confusion in my voice.

"No." Said the dude with a bad reception.

"Dan?" I asked, again.

"Uh, no."

"Ron? Bob? Jim? I'd _really_ like to know." I said sarcastically.

More like, _I'd really like to hang up on you and let my brain explode._

"Well, it's Dylan. Dylan Hagen. I'm pretty sure you'd remember our. . . say, conversation, about three years ago."

_Dylan. . ._

_Dylan. . ._

_Dylan. . . ?_

Fuck.

_Dylan the douche._

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><p><strong>Yup, another cliffy. . . Sweet, sweet revenge. Now you'll just have to review for a quicker update!<strong>

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	5. Chapter 4

**A/N: Hi guys! We hope your Thanksgiving was fun :)**

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* * *

><p>Chapter Four<p>

"_What the hell's your problem?" Fang angrily asked the stranger; Dylan, who he'd silently named 'Douche'._

_Dylan had just almost killed a girl – no biggie._

_Yeah, _right_. Fang was gonna fucking murder this guy. He could practically hear his father's voice in his head, saying, "When you find your girl, son, you better treat her right." Fang assumed htat also applied to: don't ever hold a fucking _dagger _to her _throat.

_Huge 'no, no' in the rule book, you would think; a__nd also, common sense._

"My_ problem? Says the fourteen-year-old ass hole on steroids. Fuck off, man." Dylan snarled; Fang still had him pinned to the ground._

"_Just 'cause your skin and bones, doesn't mean I'm on drugs." Fang replied._

"_Oh, shut up and get the fuck off of me!" Dylan yelled, embarrassed to admit this kid – who was younger than him by four years – was stronger than him. By a lot._

"_No way! So you can go 'almost kill' some other girl?" Fang asked. "Keep dreaming, man."_

"_Oh, and you think _your_ the hero?" Dylan asked him, with a single eyebrow __raised__. Fang just shrugged. Of course he was the hero! He just prevented a freaking murder! _"_Mmhm." Dylan nodded, tilting his head back. "And do you know who that girl you just miraculously saved from hell _was_?"_

_Fang was confused when he answered, "Maximum Ride." He was sure he'd heard her name correctly. Besides, it was hard to forget._

"_Yeah. Maximum Ride killed your parents." Said Dylan simply._

_Fang froze, but didn't release his grasp on Dylan. Everyone at his school knew Fang's parents had died. But nobody knew _how.

_But this girl killing his parents. . . ? What the hell what this guy talking about? That was impossible. "My parents died in a car accident." Fang said, expressionlessly; angry at the Douche for bringing it up, like he was having a conversion about the weather. "That girl had nothing to do with my parent's death."_

_Dylan just shook his head slowly. "She caused it, my friend."_

_That was impossible, and Fang knew it. There was absolutely no way that what this dick head was saying could possibly be true. He was a liar. A cheater. A killer. It was _impossible_. Not true. A lie._

"_Your a liar." Fang spat._

"_Oh, am I? Did they ever tell you exactly _how _this 'accident' occurred?" Dylan asked._

_Fang didn't answer, for Dylan already knew._

"_She _caused _your parent's death, Fang. She killed them. It was her, that night." Dylan pressed. It bothered Fang that Dylan knew so much._

_What if this time, he wasn't lying?_

_But he wasn't telling the truth, either. . ._

"_I swear. I know everything there is to know on this Maximum Ride." Dylan went on. Stalker. "And I can help you."_

_Fang was in shock. And he couldn't help but believe the man. "Help me with what?" Fang asked, feeling as though he was in another world. A damn hellish world that he wanted to forget completely._

"_Revenge." Dylan answered. Fang finally let Dylan up, and he brushed the dried grass off his jeans._

_Revenge._

"_Expect a phone call, and a particular surprise in about. . . three years." Dylan muttered to him_

_And he just walked away._

_Well, that's not freaky-weird at all._

* * *

><p><strong>Fang POV<strong>

"Dylan." My teeth were clenched. It was _him_. And this was my expected phone call.

Now for the surprise.

"Ah, _now_ you remember me. Great. So, you _do _remember our important conversion, three years ago?" Dylan asked. "Concerning your dead parents and a certain Maximum Ride." He added on, nonchalant.

"Shut the hell up." I hissed. "Don't talk about my parents like that." _Ass hole._

"Okay, Fang. Just listen, then. You still crave that revenge. Don't you?" Dylan asked, knowingly.

I just grunted. Maybe I did, maybe I didn't. I didn't know the whole story on my parents death, just the fucking horrors of what Dylan over here, had happened to mention oh-so sweetly.

And he knew I believed him. He knew I believed that Maximum Ride killed them, for some odd reason; that it wasn't just some accident.

"I'll take that as a yes." Dylan said. "Now, for my genius plan." He went on, "Ya ready?"

"Dammit, Just get on with it, will you?" I muttered, annoyed. He was unbearably slow.

"Okay. Revenge is a strong word." _Now, this is gonna take a while._ "I rather like it. Because of _'what goes around comes around' _as in, you know, karma. I certainly believe in karma. And Maximum Ride deserves some of it." He said. "Do you agree?" He asked me.

If what he's been telling me is true. . . "Yeah, I agree." I said in a 'duh' tone. "She fucking _killed _my parents."

This guy's an idiot.

"Then do what I tell you." He said.

"And what is this that your telling me to do?" I asked.

"Kill her." He said. Well, of course he tells me _that_.

I was silent for a few moments, then he said, "Did ya get that?"

"Yeah." I answered.

"And you will." Not a question, i noticed.

". . ." I sighed.

She killed my parents. _Killed _them. Stole their lives; snatched them away like it was some baby's _candy. _Who does that bitch think she is? They had _lives_. I was fourteen years old. _Fourteen. _Angel was just _four_. Who the hell was she to kill some innocent people? _Parents!_ We weren't rich. At all! What could she want from us? Why did she have to kill them?

That fucking _bitch_ deserved to die long ago.

I realized Dylan was still waiting for my answer when he cleared his throat over the receiver.

And that's when I said it. I said the words that sealed my fate. _For my parents. For Angel. _This wasn't only my revenge, it was my obligation. _For me._

My sanity.

"I'll do it." I said. "I'll kill her." And as the words left my mouth, I felt the real truth of them, and an unsettling feeling washed over me.

I heard Dylan's unsurprised chuckle through the phone. "I knew you'd do the right thing," He murmured. "Now for my genius plan. . ."

I soon felt the adrenaline rush through my body. _She deserved to die long ago, _I told myself, trying not to think about God's ten commandments.

_Hello Max, meet Karma._

* * *

><p><strong>A little heavy there, huh? Well, the story's juicing up! And it gets better.<strong>

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	6. Chapter 5

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><p>Chapter Five<p>

**Fang POV**

Turns out Dylan's freaking _genius plan _was to 'fake love' the murdering bitch. And my answer to that?

"_Hell _no." Did he not get the whole "she fucking murdered my parents" part? I'm not wasting any time with a whore like that, unless I'm killing her. But, to Dylan, I apparently wasn't able to just _kill her_. I had to go through this whole lovey-dovey shit, first, _then _kill her.

As I said before, _hell no._

"You're not getting it, Fang! She's a trained fighter! She's _'The Assassin'! _She'll have you murdered within seconds of your attempt." Dylan yelled at me, still over the phone. "She'll kill you first, and you'll have no chance."

_Well, when you put it that way. . . _"No."

"Fang. Stop being the stubborn ass you are, and fucking _listen to me." _How reassuring of him._ "_You don't know who's life she's planning to steal next. You'll never know. Don't take chances when their not in your favor." He finished.

Thinking it over, I began to understand his point. If his plan turned out the way it was supposed to, she'd fall for me, "desperately in love" as he put it. My opening would come, and I'd kill her without any slight suspicion at all.

Except for one itty-bitty problem.

He said I'd have to "love" her for at least a month. That's one _entire_ month of _hell_ for ya. Boy, am I exited.

I sighed into the receiver. It was my only option. "Fine." I spat, not wanting to sound defeated. "And how do I get a hold of her?" I asked.

"I've got all her information, and now, you will, too." He told me. What a stalker. "I'll send it to your email; I already got it." _Of course he had it. _"Just take her number for now: 778-4421. And for her location; right now she's at the Marriott Hotel, near your house, in Miami. Room 311. Do with it what you will. I expect a first date by tonight." He told me.

"What? Tonight? Your crazy. I need. . . at _least _a few days-"

"Hey, the day's still young," He cut me off. "You'll get it done." He said it like it was no big deal.

Then the line went dead.

And I was off to the Marriott Hotel of Miami Florida. Where awaited my victim.

* * *

><p><strong>Max POV<strong>

I'd made it to my room on the third floor, once agin. What the hell was I gonna do, now?

_Kill him, of course._

Well, I _had_ to kill him.

But he saved my life. How could I kill this Collins dude if he _saved my life? _Isn't that, like, some sort of wicked sin? Well, yeah, killing would definitely be a sin; but killing the person who saved you from a horrible and painful death? It was wrong on too many levels.

And I'm not supposed to feel remorse. No guilt, no second thoughts, no nothing. It was unnatural for me to actually care about this kind of crap. I'm _The__Assassin_. I kill. I'm numb to all pain, and all that junk. It's not fair that I'm suddenly feeling bad about killing this guy. I _had_ to do it.

What would Dylan do if I _didn't_ kill him? Kill _me? _Fire me? Rape me, hurt me?

See, that's the problem. I'll never _know_ what Dylan will do to me in the end. If he attempted to kill me, he'd be dead first, and he knew that.

But he always had other ways I could have never thought possible.

Like that night. The night I swore to never speak a damn word about ever again. Why, you ask? Because I'm scared. Yeah, you heard me right. Maximum Ride, The Assassin is _scared. _Scared of what Dylan will have to say to me about it; the incident. Everything from why, to _how _and what the hell his intentions were on that unthinkable night.

I didn't know if I wanted the answer to any of it. But, then again. . .

There were three light taps on my hotel door. Since it was probably room service, I ignored it, and went back to turn on the incredibly cool plasma TV set. Hey, when you come from almost nothing, this was awesome.

Four more knocks. "Ugh! Just leave me alone," I groaned, throwing one of the gorgeous, crisp white hotel pillows at the door, creating a slight _thud_against the door.

"Uh, Max. . . ?" Shit, that voice could melt chocolate.

And, shit, that voice belonged to _Collins._

I cleared my throat, attempting a manly tone, and replied, "This is. . . Gregory." My voice cracked, and sounded really gay. Let him assume puberty, or whatever; he should know. And where did_ Gregory_ come from?_ Seriously? _Who the hell names their son _Gregory?_

. . . Abusive parents that believe there child deserves hell on earth?

"Could you open the door please, um, Gregory?" I swallowed back my laughs, but a small girlish giggle accidentilly escaped my lips. Crap! _How smooth._Poor Gregory; Fang's probably assuming he's some dirty man-whore, or something along those lines.

_And since when do I giggle?_

"Um, no?" Sure.

"Why?" That freaking voice of his could drive a girl crazy.

"'Cause I'm in the bathroom. . ." I tried in the same tone.

"You sound pretty close to the door, though, Gregory." He answered. I could hear the smirk in his words.

"Uh, yeah." What the hell was I _supposed_ to say? I have to kill this guy, remember? Ugh. I just need some time, like, a few hours- days even, just to get my act back together–

"So can I come in?" He asked, breaking my train of thought.

"No!" I yelled, my voice more "me like". But sadly, I was stupid enough to leave the door _unlocked _and he'd already flung it open, to reveal anyone _but_Gregory.

"Crap," I muttered under my breath.

Then awkward silence.

And more silence.

Then some more.

And then. . . "Where's Gregory?" Collins finally asked.

"He, um, left." Yeah, let's go with that.

"Mhmm," He muttered, a smile barely playing against his lips.

So yeah, now for the confusion and questions: Why the hell was he here? More importantly, _how t_he hell was he here? How did he find me? Stalker? Maybe. Freaky-ass weirdo? Sure. But, why? We just sorta met a couple hours ago- If you disregard our little encounter three years back- when I barged out of my closet-hiding-spot. . . in his room. . .

So he probably had the same dawning questions about me.

Let's go with a simple one, "And your're here because. . . ?" I started.

"Well, I had a few questions, myself." He stated. _Okay. _I waited for him to go on. "You," He started. "Your the girl I saved three years ago."

"Yeah." _Don't look at me like that! I didn't know what else to freaking say!_

"And today you magically appeared out of my closet." He went on. _Well, of course I did._

"Yeah." _Brilliant._

"And I'd like to get to know you better, Maximum Ride." Holly crap. _Save me!_

This was so dang weird. I was sent here to Miami to _kill_ this guy. Then I realized he saved my life, like, three years ago. And from the person who _sent_me to kill him! And now, he's basically about to _ask me out?_ Or am I taking in the wrong signs? Well, the one and only time I'd been asked out on a "date" or so, was when I was fifteen and in high school. His name was Luis Meyers. And I didn't even go, so, as you can see I have very little experience on this subject.

So, of course I ask, "And that means?"

"I wanna take you out." He said, still standing in the doorway, still looking _really good. _And still waiting for my answer.

"You wanna. . . take me out?" I said, confused. He just nodded. "Like . . . like a date." I sated. He responded with another nod.

This wasn't weird at all, right? Everyone gets asked out on dates.

_But not if your an ASSASSIN, and your getting asked out by the person your supposed to kill._

"Okay." I finally responded, surprised at myself.

I have no idea why I just did that.

I watched as a small smile crept over his features. His damn hot features, that is. But I noticed that the smile wasn't one of satisfaction, or happiness, or whatever a smile usually was like after they just scored a date.

It was almost. . . evil.

* * *

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	7. Chapter 6

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* * *

><p>Chapter Six:<p>

Max POV

"Dylan!" I yelled, "You fucking ass! Did you not _hear_ me? The dude asked me out on a _date! _A freaking _date!_"

In case your just typically wondering, I'm screaming my fucking _brains_ out at this douche bag over the phone_._

"You agreed, of course?" He asked. Oh, I will _murder_ him.

"What the hell? What else was I _supposed_ to say, moron!" I was getting _really,_ really pissed by the way he took all this so casually. Did he not understand that I could get caught? I'll get sent to jail! I'll die alone, and hungry in a _cage. _And, then, I'll go to hell.

And for those smart aleck-y readers out there, who are all like, "You could have just said _no,_" your wrong. I _couldn't_ of done that, because I have absolutely_no _experience in this area, whatsoever- so I obviously went by instinct! And, I really had no sane reason to say _no_. I'm sure: "But, I have to kill you," would've been a low-blow.

"Perfect." Dylan finally stated.

"What are you-!" I started, but was immediately cut off.

"Max, don't you see? This is the perfect opportunity for you." He told me. "You get all cozy with him for a little while, _then_, when he least expects it, you kill him. Piece of cake, eh?"

Oh.

_Oh._

Well, _now_ I get it.

". . . But, he's _the_ _guy _that-" I was annoyingly cut off again, of course.

"Yeah, I know." He said simply, "Is their a problem?" He asked.

_Well, um, yeah. . . _"No."

"Then call me when your done." He said it like it was just some little chore. "Enough with these stupid phone calls. Your wasting my minutes!" He yelled._Freaking cheapskate_. And the line went dead.

What the hell am I gonna _do?_

It was now fifteen minutes to six.

Fang said he was coming to pick me up at "_six o'clock sharp"_.

And I'm pulling my hair out over here, worrying my freaking _guts_ out!

But, It _was_ "the perfect opportunity", right? . . . Nevertheless, how should I conceive it? Should I shoot him? Knife him? Bare-handed murder him? Hmmm, being an assassin really drains all your energy. Anyways, I'm not gonna shoot him; too loud. Definitely no knifing here- _way_ too much blood. And beating the living crap out of him wouldn't be too great either.

_Well? _Ugh. I'm seriously loosing it. . . Wait. I got it. . . I got it! Poison! That would be _just perfect_.

_Damn_, I sound so evil.

I speedily dashed to my suit case, which was stuffed in the small crammed hotel closet. I opened the tiny hidden zipper on bottop of the leather bag, and rummaged through the items until I found what I needed so desperately.

The little plastic jar read:

CONTAMINATION SYRUP (just another fancy word for _poison_). Ingredients contain: Castor Bean oil (which is a highly effective and fatal plant, by the way), Heroin, (I'm sure you could guess on that), and various acids that can severely exterminate skin, or any material, if in physical contact with either for longer than a period of four minutes.

_Then, of course:_

WARNING: If contact does occur, wash skin with cleaning water thoroughly and fully, to prevent any future damage.

Well, this was _great_. I had my plan down pat.

Then, I heard three precisely familiar taps on my hotel room door. I hurriedly stuffed the small poison bottle into my sweatshirt pocket, stood up, and brushed myself off. He was here.

Then it occurred to me:

I was seventeen years old.

I was going on my first date.

With the person I was going to _kill._

* * *

><p>I was sweating. My face felt clammy, red and hot. And I hoped and <em>prayed<em> Fang hadn't noticed anything yet.

He had driven me here, to his house. A first date at his _house_. . . Not to be rude or anything, since I haven't really ever been on a date before, but weren't first dates usually like, dinner and a movie, or something? Am I correct? Well, I guess it didn't really make a difference. I shouldn't be caring, anyway. Maybe I'd have a better chance of killing him here.

As my thoughts raged, I heard a dog bark, somewhere in the house.

"Welcome to the Collins house hold." Fang said dramatically, expanding his arms for emphasis. I picked my head up, slowly, and forced myself to be interested in the seemingly dull, boring furniture.

"It's really pretty. Thanks." I tried, kindly, after a moment.

Fang smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. It seemed forced. Like me. Maybe, he didn't really want me here. _Well, why'd he ask me out, then?_

This made my feel _loads_ more uncomfortable.

"I made some food, I'll just go get it." He told me. _He cooked? _I nodded at him, and grinned for the sake of it. Same old, same old. "Have a seat." He told me. I did as he said.

He was back before I knew it, setting down two cups of what seemed to be Coke. His forced smile colored his face, once again, as he said, "I hope you like baked ziti, I'll be right back."

_Yes, _I thought greedily.

I fake smiled, until he finally left the room. I then hastily grabbed the poison jar from inside my sweatshirt pocket and forced the stubborn lid off. Shakily, I accidentally over pored some of the syrup into his glass of ice cold Coca Cola, but luckily, manged to get it back in my pocket, just as he walked in with two little silver tin trays. I glanced back at the now _poisonous_ cup ofCoke for a split second; the liquids had all blended together perfectly.

But, in a way, I felt just so. . . so. . . _wrong?_ No. That would be unnatural. and _bad. _Horribly, horribly _bad._

I admit, for once in my hellish life, I was scared. Yes, _scared. _What if he saw right through me? What if he found out? I'd be _dead_. Literally done for. . I soon felt a bead of sweat slowly trickle down my creased forehead. I hesitantly, tried to wipe it off. _God, he's gonna know!_

Fang sat down and smiled that same halfhearted smile. I smiled back, knowingly, and looked down for the first time to notice the food. "Thanks," I muttered again.

But, then it hit me: _I'm lactose intolerant! _Yeah, I know, you don't normally meet a lactose intolerant assassin everyday. Hey, well, now you could say you_did_.

I stuck my fork into the saucy cheese and noodles absently, and pretended to eat it. "This is really good." I told Fang, politely, after a few nibbles. I smiled at him, and tried my best to sort of _un_-force it- make it look some what natural, you know?

I was so bad at this. They should really make classes on this kind of stuff. Honestly, magazines aren't all that helpful.

So, I just sat there awkwardly- my stomach aching from the lack of food- and just watched Fang. I couldn't help but notice his slender, toned cheek bones, the gorgeous color of his skin, the nice arch of his eyebrows, his perfect black hair.

It really sucked that he had to die.

I felt my stomach's hungry, anticipated growl, and it was almost painful. _Why'd he had to make freaking baked ziti?_ God created cows for a reason! _And_chicken! Heck, even _fish_ would've been fine! But, then again, it's not like this date was real.

Do I seriously have to remind myself I was only here to fucking _kill him?_ And he hadn't even touched the damn poison-Coke yet. I knew he was getting thirsty, though. _I _was getting thirsty. _So_, to get things going, I picked up my own iced glass and took four long gulps; probably looking horribly unattractive. The soda tickled my throat as it made it's way down.

_Well, drink it! _I chanted in my head, not that Fang had any chance of hearing.

I knew it would take approximatly 4 minutes for the poison to take full effect- just enough time for me to run out of the house with no witnesses to prove me guilty. I really should thank him for such convenience. But, then again. . .

That's when it happened: Everything seemed to be in slow motion. Fang's hand slowly let go of his fork, rising up to meet that _nice_, ice cold, _very_ appetizing glass of Coca Cola.

The soda that would be the death of him.

But, suddenly, a seemingly remote-controlled toy rocket swooped in out of _absolutely nowhere, _and knocked the "cup of death" all over the table.

_Crap_.

I know what you're thinking, now: _What the hell?_

Don't worry about it, same here.

But, believe it or not, that wasn't even the worst part.

The worst part was that It had spilled all over _me._

* * *

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	8. Chapter 7

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**This chapter it sort of a switch-off between Fang's and Max's POVs. Sorry if it's a bit inconvenient!**

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* * *

><p>Chapter Seven<p>

**Max POV**

"Gazzy!" Fang yelled, but I noticed a little smirk that played against his full lips. _Fucking ass._ And who the hell was _Gazzy?_

I didn't let myself dwell on it, because before Fang could say another word I shot up from my chair, therefor, having it dramatically tip over and fall to the ground with a _bang, _and raced down the living room to where I'd seen some room doors.

I quickly opened the first one to find a dark room, then, luckily, the second door I opened was a bathroom. _Thank God. _I pulled off my hoodie and T shirt, then hastily striped off my jeans. Luckily, the soda hadn't touched my bra, or sunk to my undies. That would've been hell, wouldn't it?

I turned the sink on and tried splashing the cool water against my body, but I knew that wasn't enough.

. . . Three light taps on the bathroom door. Those three freaking _annoying_ taps.

"Max?" Fang asked from the opposite side of the door, sounding confused, and slightly irritated.

I shut the running water, and innocently answered, "Yeah?"

_I had three minutes left._

"Are you, uh. . . okay?" He asked, still utterly confused. I mean, I would be too. He'd seen me run for my life 'cause _Coke _spilled on me. And now that I think about it, I probably looked like a psychopathic-diva-freak.

Huh. Oh, well.

"Yeah, _yeah_, of course!" I replied, my voice an octave higher than usual.

Then there was silence. I think he was waiting for an explanation.

"You mind if I take a shower? I'm really sticky and wet." I tried, knowing I how pathetic it sounded.

"Um, _sure. . ._" He answered. And right as he muttered the words, I flicked the shower on and dashed in for dear life.

_I now had two freaking minutes left._

I found some soap and began scrubbing my body, just hoping the freaking Coka Cola wouldn't be the end of me.

* * *

><p><strong>Fang POV<strong>

This was weird, right? I mean, I invite this little bitch to my house for dinner, some Coke spills on her clothes, and she freaks out like she's gonna die, running to the bathroom like a maniac.

Was she really that dramatic?

And then she asks to take a _shower. _A freaking _shower_. Because of _Cola. _What an ass hole.

* * *

><p><strong>Max POV<strong>

I turned the shower off. It had passed four minutes and my skin was, thankfully, not damaged.

I hopped out of the shower soaking wet, grabbed a small towel from the little closet that I'd gratefully noticed, and dried myself off.

That's when I noticed my clothes. Well, I wouldn't exactly call them _clothes _anymore.

The clothing material that had been soaked by the soda had disintegrated, creating abnormal holes and rips in all those areas. _Shit._

My bra and underwear seemed to be fine, so I threw them on. However, I was _not _going out there like this. And give the turd the satisfaction of seeing be naked? In his dreams.

So I just called Fang's name.

"Yeah?" I heard his voice drifting near the door.

"Um, do you mind if I borrow some clothes?" I asked sweetly.

"Why?" He shot back rudely.

_Well, then._

"Like I told you before, they're _sticky_. And _wet._" I spat through the door with gritted teeth. He had no right to use that tone with me. What did I ever do to _him?_

Oh, yeah. Right. Never mind. . .

Hey, I didn't do it _yet._

* * *

><p><strong>Fang POV<strong>

Clothes? Now she needed fucking _clothes?_

Oh, because they're _"sticky" _and _"wet". Boo-hoo._ Call the cops, now, will ya? It was just _soda_.

"Oh, right. Sorry, I'll go get you some." I finally answered, attempting a kinder tone.

I walked over to my room to get her the clothes, since I figured she wouldn't exactly fit into one of Angel's pink tutus, or Gazzy's batman PJs.

I rummaged through my closet until I came up with something a bit decent. My old basketball shorts and a T shirt. I hoped it satisfied her bratty little needs. Well, actually, I'd be pretty fine if it didn't.

I went back over to the bathroom and knocked for the third time.

"Fang?" She asked. _Who else would it be?_

"Yeah," I responded, lamely. "I got you some clothes."

She opened the door a crack to take the clothes and I handed them over to her. But right before she slammed it closed once again, I _accidentally_ caught a glimpse of her back through the opposite mirror, which she seemed to have gone unnoticed of.

_Nice ass._

* * *

><p><strong>I feel like that was a sucky chapter. Whatever, you guys deserved an update :)<strong>

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